Domesticated
by MizSphinx
Summary: After the War, the Ministry forces the victors into community service, and Hermione is placed as a maid for the elderly and the disabled. This might not have been so terrible, she thinks, if she'd not been given that prat, Draco Malfoy, as a partner.
1. Chapter One

**AN:** OK! Here we go. Another Dramione for your reading pleasure courtesy of **HarryPGinnyW4eva. **Yes, this is another gift fic, and **most** of the idea is hers NOT mine! She did give me free rein with it, though, so let's see what craziness I can make these two lovebirds (they don't know it yet) do. XD

**Post Update:** Yesss! Thanks to fury-shashka for betaing this! Her fabulousness is...well..._fabulous!_ :D

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling. I also do not own any songs and/or lyrics written and/or performed by Florence + the Machine. I do, however, own my undying love for the band.

* * *

**Chapter One**

_And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back_

_So shake him off._

'Shake It Out' - Florence + the Machine

**-.-.-**

Draco never knew what he wanted to become. What he _needed_ to become was a different matter entirely. _My heir_, his father often called him, with a quiet hardness that compelled Draco towards obedience. _You will marry and have beautiful sons_, his mother often told him, with a soft confidence he could never deny. What he _needed_ to be was of utmost importance. What he _wanted_ had little value to anyone, even to himself.

And then, Voldemort came and sides chosen. Decisions were made, consequences felt. The War came and the War left, taking with it lives and dreams, changing the course of everyone's fate involved. And a lot sooner than he ever anticipated, Draco found himself in a chilly Ministry office tasked to answer this question:

_What would you like to be?_

An innocuous question, really. A throwaway answer should have been on the tip of his tongue. After all, it was for a job interview – a _forced_ one – and he sincerely doubted his answer would affect their pre-confirmed decisions. They would not concern themselves over the now ignoble Malfoy boy who had attempted to murder Albus Dumbledore. He was going to get something shitty. He knew this. The unhidden anger and hate in the interviewers' gazes told him so.

_What would I like to be? _

_Someone else._

"I don't know," he said to the interviewers, and they did not bother asking him to elaborate, to try, to think hard on this, that he could take his time because it was alright, that they would wait. No, they ducked their heads, scribbled on their parchment, thanked him coldly without bothering to look at him, and told him to leave.

**-.-.-**

"How did it go?" asked his mother as he entered the drawing room. He flung himself carelessly into the nearest seat available, and though she frowned at this, she did not scold him.

"As expected," he said wearily, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the chair he sat in. "They all looked at me as if I was vomit personified."

His mother returned her gaze to look out onto the grounds through the closed window. He did not know why she liked torturing herself this way. The Malfoy Manor grounds were a glaring symbol of their now depleted wealth – if one could even call it 'wealth' anymore. Calf-high weeds overran the area, all the beautiful flowers surrounding the property were withered and dead, and the peacocks – his father's prized feathered pets – were taken away and auctioned off by the Ministry.

Most of their possessions were confiscated and sold in this fashion, and their intangible assets frozen. The manor, a shamefully small portion of gold in their Gringotts vault, and his mother's jewels remained the only things of worth to the Malfoy name. In their vicious quest to reassure the Wizarding world – as well as themselves – of their strength, the Ministry had decided to figuratively strip the Malfoys and all other wealthy Pureblooded families associated with Voldemort naked.

_At least we still have our dignity_, his mother liked to remind him. _Life is worth very little without one's self-respect_.

But Draco sometimes wondered how their situation remained 'dignified.' They no longer held their prestigious position in life, and were forced to serve others – well, his parents, at least. And though his parents did _good things_, he couldn't help compare their previous life to the current and doubt his mother's claim.

His father's magic confined permanently, Lucius now worked under heavy Auror supervision at a Muggle clinic providing free health care to the poor. His mother, who Draco doubted had ever lit a cooker, was paired up with Molly Weasley to cook and sew things for homeless Wizarding folks and Muggles. And he – well, he was unemployed, friendless, and did not know what he wanted to do with his life.

_Maybe something good. A positive change._

_What sort of change?_

"It will get better," said his mother still looking out the window, and Draco believed she tried to convince herself more than she did him. "This will get better and you will be happy."

**-.-.-**

"They have _got_ to be joking."

Hermione scowled deeply at the parchment in her hand, longing to cast an _Incendio_ upon it. Despite her mounting outrage and disbelief, Hermione forced herself to reread the letter in the hopes that on a second and much more thorough perusal, the words – _especially_ _that name_ – would change to something not quite as provoking to her blood pressure.

**To: Miss Hermione J. Granger**

**Re: Restitution and Reformation Edict 1998**

_Dear Miss Hermione Granger, thank you for your participation –_

"As if I had a choice! It's an _edict,_ you twits!"

_– in the ongoing rebuilding of Wizarding Britain following the damages incurred by the War. We received your application for work, and after careful consideration of your listed work experience, your N.E.W.T.s results, and your overall character during the formal interview, we have found a position we deem fitting._

_We have appointed you as an **On-call Servant for the Elderly and the Disabled**, henceforth referred to as an **OSED** (pronounced "oh-sed"), for one (1) year, beginning September 10th 1998 and ending September 9th 1999._

"Oh, yes! I am overcome with joy to have been given such a prestigious title!"

_An OSED is an individual who provides domestic services for the elderly and the disabled for a limited time period not exceeding seventy-two (72) hours. Every evening at 7pm, you will be Owled a missive containing the name and address of your Temporary Employer for the following day. You **must** turn up at your Temporary Employer's place of address on or before 8am, ready to fulfill the task(s) required of you. Included in this missive is a timepiece you must carry on your person when functioning as an OSED. At 8am, just before the beginning of each appointment, you must tap the face of the timepiece once with your wand and say the spell "Ici" (pronounced "e-see"), and on or after 5pm, after you have completed your appointment for the day, you must tap the face of the timepiece and say the spell "Pici" (pronounced "pee-see")._

_Each Temporary Employer will have a form listing the duties they would like you to perform. You must read the list and append your signature to the form as proof that you comply with your Temporary Employer's wishes. You **must** perform every listed request. You can only reject specific requests that endanger your health or your safety. Also included in this missive are forms you must complete and Owl to us in the event you cannot fulfill any of your listed duties, as well as an additional letter detailing further requirements, guidelines, and information you must read thoroughly prior to commencing your first appointment._

_Secondly, as per standard procedure, we have assigned you a partner who will work with you at all times as a fellow OSED._

Here Hermione began grinding her teeth. She struggled not to drop her gaze to the particular line she most detested for fear hastiness foil her chance of _that name_ being changed.

_Your partner: **Draco Lucius Malfoy**_

Hermione exhaled a breath of frustration. Too angry to read on further to where the letter instructed her to 'maintain an amicable relationship with her partner,' encouraged her to 'exchange contact information with her partner,' and talked about the weekly pay she would receive for her duties, she flung the parchment away from her.

She propped an elbow on the table, bowed her head, and tried to massage away the scowl on her forehead and the headache that threatened. Dear Merlin. _Dear Merlin_. This could not be happening to her. How could this be happening to her? What deity or divine being had she angered so much to have been handed this fate? Maybe she hadn't donated enough money to charities. Perhaps this was repayment for stealing that library book that once, single and _only_ time ages ago. Maybe it was even a clout upside the head for thinking evil thoughts about the sod who cut the line at the fish market yesterday.

Although disgruntled she'd not received a job she considered herself better skilled at performing, it did not bother her quite as much as the idea of working with _Malfoy_. She wanted to find the individual responsible for the stupendously stupid decision to pair her with Draco Malfoy. Though she was not an advocate for violence-as-a-solution, she felt confident mustering up the energy to punch the idiot who had awarded her – no, _subjected her to_ – this fate.

She _hated_ Draco Malfoy. No, maybe she did not feel quite as strongly about that git. Intensely disliked, then; justifiably so. For several years, Draco Malfoy had tortured her mercilessly with his tongue. He had said innumerably hurtful things that had chipped away huge chunks of her self-esteem. He'd made her doubt herself and her value to this world. He'd truly hated her and not hesitated at any point in their interactions to tell and show her as much.

And yet, during the trials following the War, instead of admitting the depth of cruelty that bastard had constantly exhibited towards her, instead of expounding thoroughly how he'd stood by and watched his dearest aunt torture her ruthlessly, instead of providing the evidence needed to secure his deserving arse a permanent seat in Azkaban, she'd kept quiet. She had kept quiet and let him walk free.

And this decision, it seemed, had just come full circle to bite her in the arse.

_This is the Ministry's idea of reformation?_

She shook her head in incredulity. She had nearly died fighting a war she could have abandoned, and what was her recompense? Being told she should not have done so. That she should have 'waited for the proper authorities.' That she should have stood back and watched the world she came to love and call her own burn.

She remembered how the Ministry officials' collective heads had been so deep in the sand. Despite the blatant signs, they had denied all beliefs of Voldemort's evil presence, and had hindered the Order and the civilians who had decided to take matters into their own hands.

And after it all, after the dust had settled and 'good' had won, those who had fought received a short moment of recognition, and then, in the next breath, were scolded for their selfless act.

The 'Restitution and Reformation Edict' was a law passed in the middle of July, just over two months after the War. It dictated that those who'd killed and tortured on behalf of Voldemort were given a life imprisonment sentence straightaway. Blatant supporters of Voldemort would have their magic bound permanently, perform unpaid work for Muggles for at least ten years, and would then be put under house arrest for the rest of their lives. It also forced all those who fought against Voldemort to participate in community services both in the Wizarding and Muggle worlds for one year. Non-participation ensured the individual's magic bound for five years.

Though Hermione did not mind the idea of community service, she did not appreciate the way the Ministry used it as punishment. So what if proper directives had not been followed? When in a war to save your life and the lives of those you loved, rules became inconsequential; bothersome even. All you thought about was the fight and the deep and desperate need to _win_.

And they had won. A few weeks later after the war, those who could manage had returned to complete their seventh year at Hogwarts with only a month's worth of studying before they sat their N.E.W.T.s. The Restitution and Reformation Edict had passed a week after she acquired her N.E.W.T.s results. Those who'd fought in the war had all received letters demanding their participation, and during the summer, interviews were held, and endless questions asked about every single aspect of their lives and involvement in the War.

Believing her impressive eleven 'Outstanding' and one 'Exceeds Expectations' to be beyond sufficient, Hermione had anticipated a community service job that required brainpower instead of physical work. For instance, brewing potions for St. Mungo's, or working in the administrative branch of a charity organisation, or even something at a library –

Unfortunately, that was not the case. Even if the Ministry tried to glamourise it with the use of an acronym, she was a _maid._ She didn't even know head from tail what being a maid entailed. Why did they deem this a 'fitting' position when she never indicated experience in this field? Still, those worries were minor when compared to the major headache-growing, rage-inducing thought of working alongside Draco Malfoy. She was not going to stand for it, though. She did not want to be in the same room with that bastard, let alone be in his company for over eight hours a day. That demanded too much of her sanity.

Right then, Hermione resolved to write the appropriate department a letter and see if she could have a change of partner. She'd never done it before, but if forced to utilise what little sway she held as Harry Potter's best friend to evade Draco Malfoy, she'd do it. Besides, they had probably made a mistake, and she was one hundred percent certain that when she pointed out the very obvious reason why she and Draco Malfoy could not (and never would) be partners, everything would be just fine.

Well, that's what she thought.

But Hermione soon learnt that, in life, one did not always get what one wanted.

* * *

**AN:** Exactly! Like, I totally saw these fabulous suede boots that I wanted but when I checked the price tag, I was like: WTF?! 129 dollars?! Y'all outta your bleeding minds. Ah well. The store eventually had a closeout sale and I got them for half-price. So I guess the moral of the story here is, Hermione, that if you wait a few months and window shop hard enough, you'll get that thing you wanted, but not at the same exorbitant price, and that…OK. Whatever. This is going nowhere. /end cool story sis.


	2. Chapter Two

******AN: **Important Author's Note at the end of the chapter. Thanks to the ever lovely fury-shashka for betaing this chapter to perfection. All errors found are hers...err, I mean...mine! XD******  
**

******Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**-.-.-  
**

**To: Hermione J. Granger**

**Re: Re: Request to change partner**

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_We received your request to change your OSED partner. Unfortunately, we are unable to fulfill this request as all partner matches are final and can only be revoked if there is physical, irrefutable evidence that the two of you are incompatible, and that you will only be a danger to each other's wellbeing and/or safety if you are kept together. We acknowledge your reminders of your War Heroine status and your close friendship to Mr Harry Potter; however, regardless of these facts, you have not provided sufficient evidence to your claim that you and Mr Malfoy are incompatible._

_Nevertheless, we have taken your complaints into consideration, and in an effort to bridge the gap, we have assigned both you and Mr Malfoy to a two-day team building exercise beginning Monday 7th September at 8.30am and ending Tuesday 8th September at 4.30pm. We believe this exercise will allow you both to fully acquaint yourselves with each other and help build the foundations of what we hope will become a strong, respectful, and wholesome working relationship between you both. _

_We have attached the address of the team building exercise meeting place to this letter. Attendance is compulsory. Tardiness is discouraged._

_Wishing you the best in your endeavours,_

_Veronica Skeeter,_

_Assistant Director,_

_Task and Partner Assignment Division,_

_Restitution and Reformation Edict, 1998_

Hermione scowled at the letter in her hand. She'd been doing that a bit more frequently of late – scowling. If she wasn't careful, she suspected her features would be frozen in a perpetual glower, never to enjoy the light of a smile ever again.

Veronica Skeeter. _Skeeter_. A relation to that odious Rita Skeeter woman, perhaps? She believed so. Maybe dear old Rita had told Veronica what Hermione had done to her and Veronica was now exacting revenge. Who knew? Who cared? What mattered now was the fact that she'd not only be stuck with Draco Malfoy as her work partner for a year, she'd have to be in his company a lot sooner than she'd expected.

_Ugh_. She'd never felt so aggravated in her life. This was the worst kind of luck. And what galled even more was the realisation that it was unavoidable. Well, she could abscond and go into hiding, but would she go through such drastic measures? Not to mention that even if she escaped with her magical abilities intact, she'd still not be able to use them because the Ministry would easily trace her.

What an awful, _awful_ situation. There was no light at the end of this tunnel. No lemonade to be made out of this huge batch of lemons Fate had suddenly awarded her. A year was far too long to withstand Draco Malfoy's company. A team building exercise? A complete waste of time! Even now, she could _feel_ Malfoy rubbing his hands in sinister glee, hardly able to contain himself in his anticipation to terrorise her.

Hermione placed her elbows on her tiny kitchen table and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders slumped, and her entire body sagged as though her worries had attained a physical weight her body was unable to carry. Hermione had never considered herself pessimistic, or had ever harboured a despairing attitude. She was a strong believer of perseverance, of 'things working out in the end.' She'd needed huge levels of tenacity to get through Hogwarts, and it had worked.

Perhaps the vat that had contained her stubborn spirit had been thoroughly used up because when she searched for that tenacity, she came up empty.

_Tea. I need some tea. And chocolate biscuits. I'll feel much better then._

She got up from her seat and went into her diminutive kitchen. Everything in her flat was tiny, but Hermione didn't care because it was all hers. Paid for monthly with the modest amount of Galleons the Ministry had awarded her for her contributions in the fight against Voldemort. It might have been located in one of the shoddier sections of London, but it was inexpensive, close to Diagon Alley, and the landlady was pleasant and accommodating.

Thirty or so minutes later, cup of tea half-drank, and her remaining stack of chocolate biscuits depleted, Hermione felt revived. Her can-do attitude was restored. As she washed the plate and cup, she told herself that as bad as the situation might be, she would make the best of it. She would not let sodding Draco Malfoy affect her, and as a matter of fact, come the Monday for the first day of the team building exercise, she would show him as much.

**-.-.-**

Draco was late, but he didn't care. He doubted any punishment the Ministry saw fit to dole out for his tardiness could trump the one they'd handed him for being a Death Eater's son.

_Your partner: Hermione Granger_

His irritation knew no bounds as he remembered that fateful letter. If he'd never believed the Ministry was filled with idiots, their recent stunt – pairing him with _Granger_ of all people; _Granger!_ – eradicated all doubt now. He'd like to have been a fly on a wall in that meeting. To have seen the workings of their thought processes when they'd made such an inane decision.

More so, he'd have liked to have been a fly on Granger's wall when she'd read her letter. The look he imagined that would've been on her face was hilarious enough to momentarily soothe his own outrage.

Dear Merlin, he would rather have spent the year in Azkaban than now work with her. Why couldn't they have let him choose? At least in Azkaban, The Ministry wouldn't have to pay him a weekly stipend, or suffer his face amongst the civilised folks who'd chosen the 'right side.' They could've let him rot in some dark, dank cell just like his father's ex-comrades. They could've forgotten about him and moved on with their merry lives.

But, no. Apparently, the sods were a lot more inventive in their punishment than he'd given them credit. Azkaban was too easy, too boring. However, pairing him up with a member of the Golden Trio…yes, delicious! And a Muggleborn at that! He would hate her so much, hate the _idea_ so much he would probably kill himself, and the world would be a happier place. Good riddance.

Well, the joke was on them. He didn't care about Granger or her status in this world. He didn't care about much of anything these days. But that didn't stop him from disliking the idea of working with her for an entire _bloody_ year.

He exited the lift on Level Three – 'Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes', according to the golden inscription on the wall beside the wide, opened entranceway. Directly ahead was a circular desk, and behind it sat a plump, attractive receptionist with glossy auburn hair. Draco supposed she'd look even more inviting if her face weren't contorted in a seemingly perpetual look of disgust.

"I'm here for the…" Draco was sidetracked by the sight of a crying young woman with a pair of rabbit ears sprouting out the top of her head being led away by an impassive Ministry worker.

"Failed Animagus." The receptionist looked disturbingly pleased as she eyed the girl and Ministry worker entering the lift. "She tried to circumvent the registration. Bet ten Galleons it's permanent?"

"Hm," said Draco noncommittally. Then: "I'm here for the exercise. Where do I go?"

The receptionist pursed her mouth in obvious annoyance she'd not found a fellow gossip in Draco. She flipped her glossy hair ostentatiously, and then placed a sheaf of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink on the top of her desk.

"Name, signature, and time of entry. You're late, by the way. Petty's not going to like that," she said in surly tones.

_Petty can shove it_, he'd have liked to say, but that was uncalled for so he ignored her instead. He eyed the parchment and noticed five others had already signed it, the fifth being Granger. He scowled at her tiny, neat, perfect handwriting, and in a fit of useless spite, scrawled his own name as messily as he could beneath it, making sure to loop his letters large enough to obscure hers. Once signed and dated, he handed the parchment back to the receptionist who looked at what he wrote, then eyed him with renewed interest.

"_You're_ Draco Malfoy?"

_No, I'm not. I'm an idiotic impostor who gets his jollies signing people's names on forms. Really turns me on, mind._

"Where should I go?" he asked instead, his tone flinty, his gaze likewise.

She curled her lip and looked at him, and in her stare he read the same accusations, the same knowing. _Lucius Malfoy's son_. And he knew those words, that title, the Malfoy name no longer held the envy and the awe and the grudging respect when spoken as they used to. He knew when she thought them, the words were laced with scorn, anger, dislike, and perhaps even pity.

He opened his mouth to demand directions again but she spoke before him.

"Down the hall. Fifth door on your left."

Draco turned away from her without bothering to say thank you. He told himself that whatever opinions she harboured about him were rooted deep and would not be changed by basic etiquette. He told himself, too, that whatever opinions she harboured about him were worthless. She did not matter to him. He did not care.

Each door Draco passed was wide open, and quick glances into the rooms showed him how magic could produce unexpected and unwanted results. In almost every room, he discovered some new and mind-boggling catastrophe. He saw a man with feet for arms and arms for feet, a woman with toad legs, two girls joined together at the nose, a young boy with his bum glued to a rocking chair, a hairless, neon-blue cat…

He arrived at the specified door and found it open, too. Inside, the room was cramped, made even worse by the overlarge, scuffed boardroom table in the centre. A diminutive woman wearing a bright yellow dress and a matching bright yellow hair-band in her dark hair stood at the head of the table, and sitting at the table were five individuals – two women, three men. The woman in the yellow dress spoke animatedly, and her hands followed suit. Of the five individuals, only one person appeared to be paying attention.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Granger. _Of course_. He wondered how long it would be before she'd shoot her hand in the air in her unending quest to prove she knew everything.

He entered the room and squeezed himself into a seat.

"Sorry I'm late," he mumbled.

The woman in the bright yellow dress immediately stopped talking. Her eyes, a pleasant hazel, landed on Draco, but there was something in them that terrified him a bit—just enough to halt his slouching. He supposed this was the aforementioned "Petty."

"You must be Draco Malfoy," said the woman. Everybody was watching him now – well, except Granger. Her bushy head was turned away from him, her gaze caught up in the intricacies of the drab grey wall with its peeling paint to her left.

"Yes," said Draco.

"You're late," Petty accused, frowning.

"Yeah, seems so." He returned to his slouching to prove he was as unconcerned about his lateness as was possible. "Sorry."

Hermione scoffed, her back still turned to him. Immediately annoyed, Draco turned his gaze on her.

"Got something to say, Granger?"

Hermione's head swiveled, her wild hair shaking with the sudden movement. There was scorn plastered on her face.

"I've nothing to say to _you_."

His features mirrored hers. "That's a surprise. You've always loved to prattle on and on. Guess you've finally learnt when to keep your mouth shut. I doubt that, though."

The other participants' faces alighted with newfound interest. Petty's frown darkened, and when Hermione opened her mouth to fire a retort Draco's way, Petty interjected.

"Well! I can see why they've assigned the two of you to this exercise! Come, I've been chattering on for too long. It's time for us to introduce a practical to get you lot going." Producing her wand, she vanished the cumbersome table, indicated they all rise to their feet, and vanished the chairs too.

"OK!" continued Petty, suddenly cheery once more. "Now, the first and most important thing we've got to acknowledge is that there is no '_I_' in team! No-one can be a _team_ all on their own! Do you know what 'team' really stands for?" She didn't wait for their answer. "Team. T-E-A-M. Together Everyone Achieves More!"

Silence.

"Isn't that right, everyone? Together Everyone Achieves More! Say it with me! Together…" Petty began moving her hands like a conductor before her not-so-enthusiastic orchestra.

"Everyone….Achieves…More…" mumbled everyone else in asynchronous, uncomfortable tones. Draco didn't even bother opening his mouth.

"A little louder! Come on! When you say it, you'll believe it! Together…?"

"Everyone Achieves More." This was said with a tiny bit more verve.

"Again!"

"Together Everyone Achieves More," announced the group with even more energy than before, Hermione's voice the loudest.

"I'm still not convinced!"

"Together Everyone Achieves More!"

"That's better!" clapped Petty, her mouth stretched in a wide smile. "Lovely! OK! Now that you've the foundation, our first building block in team-building is trust! We can't be a team if we're not absolutely certain our other team members are reliable. So let's move on to some exercises that will help us do just that!"

Her gaze honed in on Draco, and, intuitively, he realised the coming events were not going to be pleasant – for him.

"You. Mr Malfoy. Can you please come and stand right here?" She pointed at a spot on the slightly dirty carpet just a few inches in front of her.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her, "I bloody well will not, thank you very much." But he remembered that he had no choice in any of this, and should he disobey, Merlin knew what further atrocities they'd put him through in the name of punishment. So he went and stood in front of Petty.

She smiled up at him for a moment then peered around him and said, "Miss Granger, can you please come and stand in front of Mr Malfoy?"

The room was unnaturally quiet save for the sound of Hermione's muted footfalls on the carpet as she walked to where Draco and Petty stood. When Hermione was abreast of him, Draco glanced down and noticed her bottom lip pursed and her eyebrows creased in irritation. This, of course, increased his own provocation.

She was standing in front of him now, glaring up at him as though he were the cause of not only the discomfort of her current situation, but of all the injustices and hardships that existed in the world. Her eyes unrestrainedly advertised her deep dislike for him, and Draco hoped to the gods that his cold gaze and curled upper lip carried a similar message as well.

"No, you're to turn around, Miss Granger. Turn your back towards Mr Malfoy."

Hermione made a quick turn, her hair whipping past closely to Draco's face.

"Careful with that rat's nest you call hair, Granger," goaded Draco.

"I don't know why you're so concerned, Malfoy. You'd fit right in, wouldn't you?"

Draco opened his mouth to retort but, of course, Petty interrupted him.

"OK! Wow! You two are quite the pieces of work, aren't you? Well! Nothing like some trust exercises to loosen you up!

"Now, Mr Malfoy, I want you to hold your hands out, slant your forearms, palms up. Yes, yes, just like that. Both of your arms should parallel Miss Granger's sides." His face a picture of unhappiness, Draco took extreme care not to touch Hermione. "That's fantastic!" Then Petty turned to Hermione. "Now, Miss Granger, I want you to fall back onto Mr Malfoy."

Silence.

"_Excuse me_?" said Hermione.

"You're not serious?" said Draco.

The dial on Petty's enthusiasm turned up a notch. "I'm very serious! This is a trust exercise! I want the both of you to establish trust between each other, and what better way than literally 'having your partner's back?' See, when you, Miss Granger, fall back onto Mr Malfoy, he'll catch you, and –"

"But he won't! He'll let me fall," complained Hermione. Draco couldn't see her face but he knew it was contorted in disgust. "He's an evil git who enjoys other people's suffering."

"Oh, is that right? I wonder who'll suffer the most having to bear your hippogriff weight, or worse, _touch_ you?"

"Oh, of course!" said Hermione in dramatic tones, her hands gesticulating in a similar manner. "Here we go again about my dirty, dirty blood." Finally she turned to face him, the disgusted look he'd imagined on her face still very present. "I was wondering when you'd work that in, Malfoy. I'm amazed. You actually lasted half an hour before showing your true bigoted colours."

The other participants looked on in silent fascination, and though Petty tried to interject, Draco and Hermione ignored her in favour of their argument.

"I don't recall mentioning your blood, Granger. Ever the bossy little bint, you're putting words in my mouth."

"Right. You never take responsibility for your actions, do you, Malfoy? As always, 'someone else made me do it.' If I remember correctly, that's the same excuse you used about Dumbledore's death!"

The others gasped, and then heavy and absolute silence followed.

Draco saw the exact moment when Hermione regretted her words. He saw her indecision as to whether she should apologise or not, and her reluctance when she understood that it was the right thing to do.

_The right thing to do_. Hermione Granger and all of her little friends liked to concern themselves with this difficult philosophy. They enjoyed being the bigger person, the better man. The Right Thing To Do-ers like Granger fancied themselves good people, therefore superior to Did Some Awful Shit And Regret It And Trying To Move Past It individuals like him. Their self-importance was great, their unwillingness to forgive and forget staggering. Their apologies were insincere and were meant only to make themselves feel better when their self-righteousness had carried them too far over the line.

But then, Draco remembered the litany of nasty things he'd said to her over the years, how she'd taken every insult with an irritating kind of durability that had spurred him to direct even worse invectives her way. He remembered, too, how his Aunt Bellatrix had…how he'd said nothing, done nothing, had just watched in horrified admiration as she withstood it all, borne it with that same indestructible strength…

_He_ had never apologised to her for those things. Therefore, when she said,

"Dra – Malfoy, I'm sorry."

He didn't waste time replying. Whatever that was on his mind to say would come out sounding petty, and Draco was forced to accept that she was, indeed, the bigger and better person here.

And this annoyed him. It annoyed him immensely.

* * *

**Important Author's Note:  
**

Hey folks! Just wanted to quickly say that my life has become really hectic of late, and updates will be sparse for the remainder of this year. I will continue to write this fic, as well as 'Divergence' (if you're reading that one, too), so please don't think I've abandoned them! I have no intentions to do so at all. I am determined to get back my free time to write fanfic. In any case, thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed/favourited/alerted this fic! I don't always respond to reviews on time, but I try my best to reply to everyone - well, to those of you who ALLOW PM messages.

Anyway, love you lots n lots n lots!

-miz


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